


Shed Your Shadows

by rattatatosk



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anxiety, Asexual Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Asexual Relationship, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Has Self-Esteem Issues (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Shedding, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Snaketember Prompts, Snektember
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:22:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26864353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rattatatosk/pseuds/rattatatosk
Summary: He hates this. Being forced into this form. No matter how large he gets, it still makes him feel small, bestial,crawling. It's a painful reminder that no matter what he does, no matter how he pretends at being something else,thisis his true nature.  A lowly, wretched thing. Not fit for anything but slithering in the dirt on his belly.(Once a century, Crowley has to shed. Aziraphale doesn't know-- but he's about to find out.)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 78
Kudos: 348
Collections: Aspec-friendly Good Omens





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Snektember Drabble Collection](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26236924) by [Snowfilly1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowfilly1/pseuds/Snowfilly1). 



> Inspired by [Snowfilly1's drabble on Shedding/Moulting](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26236924/chapters/64722601). I wanted to see how the rest of the story would play out, and she generously gave permission to put my own spin on it.

He needs to leave.

He doesn't _want_ to leave. He wants to stay, lounging here in his usual spot on the couch, snug in the bookshop with Aziraphale nearby. But he's been pushing down the change for days now, and he's not going to be able to avoid it much longer. Even now, he can feel his teeth too-sharp in his mouth, and his tongue has gone long and forked. He's sure his eyes are fully yellow beneath the glasses.

He needs to leave. Aziraphale can't see him like this. He doesn't know. Oh, he knows Crowley is a snake, of course, but there's a difference between knowing something and  _seeing_ it, and Aziraphale hasn't seen him in that form in centuries. Crowley's made sure of that. 

He needs to leave. It's the perfect time to go. Aziraphale received a lot of books from an estate sale this morning, and he's busy cataloging them. He's been at it all day, barely even looking up when Crowley refilled his tea. He's likely to be occupied for hours, still, well into the night. He won't notice if Crowley slips away now.

A shiver runs down his spine, and Crowley feels the skin there bloom into scales, feels his fingers briefly flex into claws. He hisses and wrenches himself back to human-shape with a grunt of effort. It leaves him shaking, a shiver of cold cutting through him. His magic is waning.

He needs to  _leave_ . If he waits much longer, he won't be able to, and then Aziraphale  _will_ find out.

Crowley looks to the study, hopes to Someone that Aziraphale stays busy with his books, and staggers out the door.

He starts the Bentley with a snap, barely in the seat before he's flooring the gas and screeching onto the street. He can only hope the books will hold Aziraphale's attention long enough that he doesn't notice Crowley's absence. Aziraphale has spent countless nights buried in a book, only glancing up when the sunlight of a new day starts shining in his eyes. Let tonight be one of those nights. Let Aziraphale read, and read, and never notice time passing, until Crowley can make it back to him, as if nothing ever happened at all.

He can stop by one of the shops on his way back. Bring Aziraphale breakfast. The angel always likes that. He'll ask what Crowley was up to, and Crowley will smile and imply something devilish, and Aziraphale will never have to know.

The Bentley knows her way home, and it's just as well because it takes all Crowley's concentration to stay human-shaped long enough to get to his flat. As it is, he's barely inside the door when his knees give out and he's falling, scales blooming on his skin as he unravels, landing in great winding coils on the ground, filling up the room as the great bulk of him unspools across the smooth slate tiles of the living room floor.

For a long moment he just lays there, trying to adjust to a wholly different array of senses. It's all smell-taste-feel, hardly anything of sight or sound, even when he's not in blue and his eyes are clear. This low to the ground, everything looks different. It's disorienting, and it takes longer than he wants to properly get his bearings.

He hates this. Being forced into this form. No matter how large he gets, it still makes him feel small, bestial, _crawling_. It's a painful reminder that no matter what he does, no matter how he pretends at being something else, _this_ is his true nature. A lowly, wretched thing. Not fit for anything but slithering in the dirt on his belly. 

_On your belly you shall go, and dust shall you eat all the days of your life_ . He can still hear Her words, even now; can  feel the bite of them in his scales and on his tongue.

Most of the time, he doesn't mind being a snake, not really. It can be quite enjoyable, in the right circumstances. But this, the shed-- it's disgusting . It makes him feel dirty. Helpless. Trapped in a corporation he can't control. The sensation brings up too many memories, long-buried, of the last time he was suddenly, irrevocably  _changed_ . 

Once a century. It's not so often, in the grand scheme of things. But every time, he can't help but wonder if someday this, too, will be permanent.

The air in the flat is cold, and his blood slows with it. He needs to get somewhere warmer. Someplace more humid, too-- moisture will ease the itch in his scal es and relieve the pressure of skin grown too-tight. After that, there's not much else he can do but wait. 

Slowly, he slinks his way towards his plant room, following his tongue towards the scent of green.

* * *

It's late in the evening when Aziraphale closes his book and looks up to the sound of blissful silence. He'd closed the shop this morning, of course, the better to avoid distractions, but now even the streets outside are quiet, the crowds of shoppers long since gone home.

He stands and stretches, his corporation gone a bit stiff after sitting still so long. He hadn't intended to get so caught up, but a certain title had caught his eye, and before he knew it he'd read the entire thing straight through. He does hope Crowley hasn't gotten too bored, waiting for him all this time. The demon is prone to terrible mischief when he lacks for entertainment.

He wanders out into the shop, noting absently how  _quiet_ it is. Crowley should be around--he nearly always is, these days. Usually he spends the time lounging on the sofa, entertaining himself with some game or video on his phone. Generally he keeps the sound turned all the way up, just to be annoying. Aziraphale has long since learned to tune out the tinny, digital noises.

But now it's quiet. Perhaps he's fallen asleep? But no, as Aziraphale rounds the corner he sees no pile of blankets, no tousled red hair draped over the arm of the sofa.

It's... odd. Unsettling. Crowley often goes out, of course, restless as he is, but he usually lets Aziraphale know before he leaves. It hasn't been so very long since Armaggeddon wasn't, and neither of them are eager to spend very long apart.

Or... perhaps he _did_ tell Aziraphale, and he was simply too distracted by his book to hear it. It wouldn't be the first time. Crowley is certain to tease him about it, if that's the case.

Aziraphale sighs. He'll have to think of some way to pay the demon back, he thinks, with a fond smile. Some particularly saccharine compliments, perhaps. Crowley always does turn the most _delicious_ colors whenever he does that.

Still, he'll feel better if he at least checks in and sees what the demon is up to. Besides, he's feeling a bit peckish after all that reading, and if Crowley is out, perhaps he can pick up some takeaway on his way back.

So he makes his way to the shop's phone and dials Crowley's mobile. It rings, and rings, and rings again, and Aziraphale grows colder the longer the sound drags on. Eventually, he hangs up, starting to properly worry now.

He doesn't understand. Crowley _always_ has his mobile on him. If he's not answering...

_It's probably nothing,_ he tells himself, but there's a sick dread curling in his stomach, and his fingers tremble slightly as he dials the number for Crowley's flat.

_Please pick up,_ he prays.  _Please be alright_ .

The phone rings, and rings, and rings. Finally there's a click, and Crowley's voice spills out.  _This is Anthony Crowley--_

Aziraphale opens his mouth to reply, only to hear – _you know what to do, do it with style_ , and closes it again. The ansaphone message. Of course.

He swallows hard and hangs up the phone, trying to fight back the tears gathering in his eyes.

Something's happened. It must have. Why else would Crowley leave so suddenly, and without any warning?

Terrible possibilities flood his mind. Could-- could Crowley have been summoned? Or worse-- _taken_? He presses a hand to his mouth, sudden nausea rising at the memory of the last time he'd gotten the ansaphone. Crowley had told him, Hastur had been _right there._ If Crowley hadn't had the Holy Water, if he hadn't been so damnably clever, he would have--

What if Hastur came _back?_

No. _No_. They were supposed to be safe. They were supposed to be _left alone--_

He shudders, and shoves the building panic down with an effort of will. He's overreacting, surely. There must be some simple explanation. There's no sense getting all worked up. Not yet. Not before he knows for sure that Crowley is gone.

He'll check at the flat, first. That's the most likely place for Crowley to be. Aziraphale will find him, probably doing something foolish. He'll give Crowley a good scolding for worrying him so much, and then they'll laugh and go for a late dinner or drinks, and everything will be  _fine_ . 

_Crowley is fine_ , he tells himself desperately, as he rushes out the door.  _He must be._

_Please, please, please, let him be fine._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can't resist a good cliffhanger, sorry. ;) The second half is nearly done and should be up in a few days.


	2. Chapter 2

Aziraphale senses Crowley's presence as soon as he reaches the flat, and his knees go weak with relief. He sways, catching himself on the doorway and taking deep breaths to steady himself. For a moment, it's all he can process. _He's here. He's here. He's here._

Something is still off, though. The whole flat is dark and eerily silent, and Crowley's aura feels... muted, somehow. Faint.

“Crowley?” he calls, carefully groping along the wall for a light switch. The hard, angled shapes of Crowley's furniture are even more menacing in the dim light from the windows. “Are you alright?”

There's no response, and Aziraphale, tired of fumbling in the dark, gives up on his search and simply manifests a sliver of his halo to light his way as he moves further into the flat, following the dim flare of demonic energy to its source. It seems to be coming from the plant room.

“Crowley?” he calls again.

He turns the corner, and gasps.

Filling the plant room is the most enormous snake he's ever seen. It is unmistakably Crowley-- but far, far larger than he's ever been before. Much larger than he had been in Eden, and quite possibly larger than any serpent that's ever existed. Crowley had told him stories, once, about some of the fossils that the humans had found. _They call this one Titanoboa_ , he'd said, with a smirk, showing a painting of an enormous snake on his phone. _Proper terrifying, innit? Too bad it's all a big joke, just like the dinosaurs._

That supposed ancient snake had been ten meters long, if he remembers right. The beast in front of him now is easily twice that length-- a great mound of looping coils, rustling faintly as they slide over and under and betwixt one another.In the dark, he's nearly invisible, the deep black of his scales blending seamlessly into the shadows, with only the faint glitter of light from Aziraphale's halo to give him away.

It is _quite_ a bit more snake than he'd been expecting (not that he was expecting any snake at all). And yet, all Aziraphale can feel is overwhelming relief. Crowley is _here,_ safe and sound. A serpent, yes, and that's certainly unusual-- but it is so much better than the disasters Aziraphale imagined that he could weep with the joy of it.

It's too much. He needs to touch Crowley, to reassure himself that this is real, that Crowley really is here, safe and whole. Carefully, he picks his way through the room, weaving around the enormous coils until he can kneel down next to the serpent's head and place a gentle hand on his snout.

“Crowley?” he calls. “My dear, is everything alright?”

* * *

Something touches Crowley's snout, startling him out of his doze, and he lashes out on instinct, still mostly blind. He feels the blow connect, feels something solid and warm tumble over his coils, feels the vibration of whatever-it-is falling to the floor.

Then the familiar scent of angel hits his tongue.

Oh.

Oh no.

_Aziraphale._

Aziraphale is _here._ Aziraphale _saw_.

Panic fills him, and he frantically slithers backwards, twisting himself into knots as he scrambles to get away. He presses himself as far into the corner as he can get, trying to make himself small. It's a ridiculous, pointless effort. There is no way to hide a serpent as large as he is without magic, and he has none of that at the moment. Still, he coils more tightly in on himself, loops upon loops, burying his snout in the center as if, like a child, not seeing Aziraphale can keep Aziraphale from seeing him.

He knows what he looks like. He's been mistaken for a dragon, in the past, and even a god. It amounts to the same thing. He is a monster beyond any Earth can produce. A _foul beast_.

Nothing fit to share space with an angel.

He braces himself for Aziraphale's reaction, for shock or surprise or disgust, but it doesn't come. The room is quiet. He shivers, pushing his snout in deeper. Perhaps Aziraphale is simply beyond words. Perhaps his face shows all the horror he cannot say. Either way, Crowley would rather not know it.

It's only as the silence stretches on that another worry creeps in. Aziraphale... is okay, isn't he? He- he wasn't hurt when Crowley lashed out, was he?

He has to be okay. Crowley couldn't bear it if he'd actually hurt his angel.

Cautiously, Crowley peeks out from beneath his coils, searching for a pale blur among the dark shadows of the room.

_Ssssiraphale?_ He calls, tentatively.  _Are you alright?_

“Yes, yes, dear, I'm fine,” a voice calls, and Crowley turns to see Aziraphale-- or at least, an Aziraphale-shaped blur-- laid out on the floor. As he watches, the blur stands up and wiggles about-- dusting his coat off, probably. He shifts, and Crowley feels soft hands on his scales, giving his flank a gentle pat.

“I'm so sorry, darling,” he says. “I didn't mean to startle you like that. I didn't realize-- I suppose you can't see very well, with your eyes like that.”

_I... no_ , Crowley admits, reluctantly.  _I can't._

Silence stretches out between them, then, thick and heavy and uncomfortable. Crowley holds himself still, a coiled spring of anxiety. Now that he's assured of Aziraphale's safety, the initial terror of discovery has returned. Aziraphale is _here_. Aziraphale has _seen_ him, and Crowley doesn't know what to say. The angel is sure to have questions, and Crowley is sick with the thought of having to answer them. Of having to explain all the mortifying details of this disgusting, animal process.

But Aziraphale doesn't ask, or at least, he doesn't ask the obvious thing. No ' _What are you doing?'_ or ' _Why are you a snake?'_ Instead he only lowers one hand to Crowley's side, fingertips barely brushing his scales, and asks “May I?”

_...What?_ Crowley blurts, intelligently.

“May I touch you?” Aziraphale says. “I'm sorry-- I should have asked before. It's fine if you don't want to be touched in this form. But I'd very much like to be close to you, if I may.”

_I..._ Crowley is having trouble processing this. Aziraphale wants to touch him? Still? Like this? But he always wants to be close to Aziraphale, so he swallows down his fear and says,  _Sure, angel. C'mere._

He can't see the angel's face, but he hears a smile in his voice as he settles down, sitting on the floor and leaning up against Crowley's side. “Well,” Aziraphale says, lightly. “I suppose this explains why you didn't answer your phone.”

Despite himself, Crowley laughs.  _Haaa. Yeah. Can you imagine? I'd smash it flat_ .

Aziraphale laughs too, and a little more of Crowley's fear ebbs away. He's nervous, still, but... whatever he'd expected from being discovered... it wasn't this. Aziraphale isn't recoiling in fear or disgust, he isn't shocked or horrified. He's just... talking. Like he always does. As if Crowley isn't a terrifying, monstrous serpent, and this is just another evening they're spending together, whiling away the hours with some wine and conversation.

Cautiously, Crowley slithers a little closer to Aziraphale. He brings his head around, nudging up under the angel's arm. His tongue flickers out and brushes Aziraphale's wrist as he does, and he cringes. But Aziraphale only chuckles. “That tickles, you know,” he says, and brushes his hand gently over Crowley's snout.

“I really am sorry for startling you,” Aziraphale says, softly. “I didn't mean to intrude. It's only-- you scared me terribly, disappearing the way you did. You were just _gone_ , and then you didn't answer your phone, and I--” he breaks off, but Crowley can feel the way his hands tremble.

“I'm very glad you're alright, darling,” he whispers, and Crowley shrinks back, suddenly ashamed. He'd been so worried about Aziraphale finding out... he hadn't at all considered what it would look like, to leave so suddenly. Of course the angel panicked.If Aziraphale suddenly disappeared, Crowley would have done the same.

_M'sorry,_ he mumbles.  _Didn't mean to scare you._

“I forgive you,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley shudders. He's not sure he'll ever get used to it, hearing those words-- or the way Aziraphale offers them so easily.

“Still,” Aziraphale continues, “Now I know you're safe... Should I leave? Would you prefer to be alone?”

Crowley considers. His initial instinct is to say _yes, go away, leave me alone._ Long, bitter experience has taught Crowley that nothing is this easy. He still can't shake the fear that this will all go wrong, the certainty that revealing such a vulnerability will only be used against him.

Aziraphale can't really be okay with this, can he? Or-- or maybe he's okay with the serpent, but he won't be okay with the rest of it. The shed. How could he? It's disgusting, the way his skins sloughs off, piling up around him and clinging like cobwebs. Aziraphale likes things neat, clean, well-tended, and Crowley isn't, not like this.

He should tell Aziraphale to go. Drive him away before he sees the whole of this, before the other shoe falls and Crowley is faced with the disdain that surely must be coming.

He opens his mouth to say something cutting and sharp, something that will send the angel away and leave him safely alone... and yet... and yet...

He can't bring himself to do it.

He wants this. He wants Aziraphale here, next to him, for as long as he can have him. Now that he's past the initial panic of having his secret discovered, he has to admit he doesn't really want to be alone for this. There's a lot of long, lonely, _boring_ hours involved in shedding, and it would be nice, to have someone with him. To have something to do besides wait in miserable silence.

He's hesitated too long, though, and Aziraphale seems to have taken his silence for an answer. He shifts and moves to stand, bracing himself with one hand on Crowley's coils. “I'm sorry,” Aziraphale says again. “I'm intruding. I'll go.”

_Wait!_ Crowley cries, and Aziraphale pauses. Crowley tilts his head away, embarrassed at the outburst.  _Stay_ , he mutters.

“Are you sure?” Aziraphale asks, and it's something Crowley loves about him. That he checks. That he listens. That he _asks_ what Crowley wants, and does his best to respect that. No one has ever done that for him before. 

(It's still hard. Crowley can't always believe that the angel means it. But for Aziraphale, he's trying.)

_Yesss_ , Crowley hisses. He wants to say more, but those feelings are still too raw, too tender to be voiced.  _Please stay,_ he says instead. It's all he can manage.

It's enough.

Aziraphale settles down next to him, leaning back to rest comfortably against Crowley's coils. “Of course, darling,” he murmurs. “Whatever you like.”

Crowley shivers at the endearment (he's still not used to those, either), but he curls a little closer to Aziraphale. The angel is always warm, and the heat of it sinks into him, pleasant and familiar and, dare he say it, _comforting._

They sit like that for a long time in easy silence; Crowley lulled into a half-doze by the soft soothing strokes of Aziraphale's fingers on his scales, before Aziraphale speaks again.

“Crowley,” he says quietly, “are you alright? Truly? It's only... I've never seen you transform like this. Not since Eden.”

Crowley sighs. He supposes it had to come up eventually.  _I'm alright, angel_ , he admits.  _This...happens. Shedding, that's all. Once a century or so. Forced back into serpent-shape for a bit. A bit of time, and I'll be back to normal._

Aziraphale hums thoughtfully. “I see,” he says. “I knew snakes shed their skin, of course, but it never occurred to me you might do the same.”

_Nnh,_ Crowley grunts, and flicks his tongue in an irritable hiss. He doesn't want to talk about this. 

Aziraphale doesn't press, however. “It does seem quite disconcerting,” he says. “Is there something I can do? Would you like me to read to you? Or something else? Normally I'd offer you a drink, but I'm not sure at all whether that would be good for you in this form...”

Crowley snorts. He's tried drinking as a snake. It's not nearly as much fun as it is in human-shape. Snake tongues don't really have much in the way of taste buds. But now that Aziraphale mentions it...

_I—Actually..._ he starts, and then hesitates. Pushes down the little voice that warns him  _this is stupid, why are you bothering him with this, what does it matter._

“What is it?” Aziraphale asks. 

Crowley sighs.  _Could you put on some music, maybe?_

But Aziraphale only smiles. “Of course, darling. What shall I play?”

* * *

They sit like that for hours, Aziraphale curled up in the center of Crowley's coils, leaning against his flank, slowly stroking Crowley's head as the sound of Vivaldi wafts around them. It's nice. Wonderful, honestly. Usually by this point he's mired in a deepening spiral of his own thoughts, wishing desperately he could get things over with and only succeeding in becoming more aware of how miserable he is.

He's still _uncomfortable_ , this way; irritable and itchy, but at least he's nicely distracted.

He worries, still, about Aziraphale's reaction when the shed starts properly, but it's more out of habit than real fear. So far things have gone better than he could ever have hoped, and the soft scritch of Aziraphale's perfect nails against his scales is incredibly soothing. He's almost starting to trust it.

He doesn't have long to worry, anyway. As dawn light creeps in through the skylight, the itch sets in in earnest, and he wiggles quickly out of Aziraphale's lap. There's no room left in his head for worry at this point, his whole self consumed with the need to scratch and rub and get this shed _off_. He makes a beeline for the planters lining the room, practically burrowing into the rough concrete surface as he tries to free his snout. If he can just get the first bit off--

He's stopped by a gentle hand on his snout, and a familiar vibration as Aziraphale kneels down next to him. “Here, darling, let me help,” he says, gently.

He digs in with his perfectly manicured nails, catching the folds too small for Crowley to notice, and soon enough the shed tears. Aziraphale rolls the skin back over Crowley's snout, infinitely careful around his eyes-- and then it's gone, and Crowley can _see_ again.

"There you are." Aziraphale smiles, his eyes crinkling, and he leans down to place a gentle kiss on Crowley's nose. "Let's get the rest of this off you, shall we?"

It's always been Crowley's least favorite part of an already terrible experience. He hates the feeling of it; the way the old skin never comes off smoothly, catching and snagging on things and tearing into pieces around him. Strings of it inevitably got tangled as he twisted around, struggling to free the sheer length of him, and half the time he got caught in a knot of his own making

With Aziraphale helping, though... there's none of the messy piling, no helpless struggle as he flails around, trying to escape his own flesh. Instead the angel helps him pull it off, bit by bit, rolling it up neatly as he goes.

His hands are delicate but strong, careful but firm, and he is, Crowley realizes, handling him with the same care and attention he uses on the ancient, crumbling manuscripts in his collection. Maybe more. As Aziraphale eases him out of the shed inch by inch, Crowley feels not just cared for, but... _cherished._

It's a very odd feeling for a demon, and it leaves him silent and thoughtful, even as Aziraphale frees the last of his tail and moves away to bundle the shed neatly out of sight.

It's over.

The whole process has gone faster than he ever could have imagined. It's only been a few hours, but here he is, lying in the early morning sunlight, new scales glossy and shining.

He feels relieved, and for the first time after a shed, _refreshed_.

And as he lies there, stretching himself out and feeling the flex of new, supple scales, he wonders, vaguely, if he could have had this before.

He's never- It honestly never occurred to him to just... ask for help. (Not surprising, really. Asking for help in Hell was-- well. There were worse decisions you could make in Hell, but not many.)

And he- he knows- _has_ known, really, that Aziraphale would never hurt him. But he- it's still hard for him to accept, even now, the idea that someone would actively _help_ him. That someone might care enough to do something for him, just for his own sake, and not because they wanted something or it helped them, too. Something _kind._

But then, Aziraphale always had managed to surprise him with his kindness.

His magic will take a little longer to return, still, and the shed, while easier than usual, has tired him. When Aziraphale returns, he curls comfortably around him, lays his head in the angel's lap, and goes to sleep.

* * *

When he wakes, he is human-shaped again, and Aziraphale's fingers are threading through his hair as gently as they had stroked his scales. Aziraphale has draped a woollen blanket over him, its scratchy warmth a welcome guard against the chill of the stone floor.

“Good morning,” Aziraphale murmurs. “Are you feeling better?”

Crowley blinks at him, sleepily, before realizing that he does, actually. Normally he wakes in a tangle of shed skin, leaving him feeling dirty all over again. As soon as he can manage his legs he usually throws himself in the shower, scrubbing at his skin until he feels _clean._ But this time... the shed is tucked in a corner, neatly gathered, and it's no more disgusting than a pile of hair after a haircut.

He still wants a shower, but only because he enjoys them, not because he feels dirty.

“I-- Yeah,” he says, looking up into Aziraphale's beautiful blue eyes. “I do.” He swallows, then, and looks away. This part is still hard for him to say, but Aziraphale deserves to hear it. “...Thank you,” he says quietly.

“Happy to help,” Aziraphale says, and his face creases with sympathy. “I'm sorry you have to go through that. It doesn't look terribly pleasant. ”

Crowley grunts. “ 'S not so bad,” he grumbles. “At least... not with you here.”

Aziraphale smiles again, and leans down to press a kiss to his forehead. “Then I shall make sure to be there next time. As long as you promise not to run away again.”

Crowley flushes, and buries his face in the angel's belly. “Nnh. Guess I could do that,” he mutters.

“My beautiful, foolish serpent,” Aziraphale teases, ruffling Crowley's hair, and the words soothe the last of Crowley's hackles. He never thought he'd see a day when _beautiful_ and _serpent_ were said together.

“Now,” the angel continues, “there's that lovely cafe just down the street, and I could dearly use a good cup of tea. I thought, if you'd like, we might order in some breakfast.”

Crowley's stomach rumbles a little at that. Breakfast sounds _amazing._ Crowley rarely eats, but after a shed he's always starving. A hearty meal and a lazy morning in are exactly what he needs right now-- and somehow, Aziraphale knew that.

_Oh_ , he thinks brightly,  _I'm an idiot._

Because Aziraphale _knows_ him. _Has_ known him through six thousand years. Of _course_ a few extra scales wouldn't scare him off. How could he ever have feared it would?

 _Foolish serpent_ , indeed.

The revelation fills him up with light and love, until he's fit to burst with the hopeless, dizzying joy of it, and all he can do is reach up to pull Aziraphale down for a kiss.

“Yeah,” he rasps, when they part. “I-- Yeah. Breakfast sounds perfect.”


End file.
